


Won't Say I Told You So (But I Totally Did)

by justanotherjen



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Developing Friendships, Enemies to Friends, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Sunburn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-20 01:39:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14885199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanotherjen/pseuds/justanotherjen
Summary: Things would run a lot smoother in camp if people would just get their heads out of their asses and listen to Clarke. And by “people” she means Bellamy.Takes place in the first weeks on the ground but without them ever contacting the Ark.





	Won't Say I Told You So (But I Totally Did)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bellofthetolppl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellofthetolppl/gifts).



The sun breaks through the canopy of leaves, dappling the ground in pools of light and shadow, and a warm breeze flutters Clarke’s hair as she strolls down the ramp of the dropship. She’s been making rounds all morning—checking on the other kids to see if anyone needs anything—and there’s just one name left on her list.

Clarke finds Bellamy a few minutes later, following the sound of thwacking she hears in the distance. She watches him from the cover of the trees as he uses his hatchet to carve a little wedge out of one side of a tree. He pauses long enough to pull off his shirt, dabbing at his sweaty face, before he goes to work on the other side of the trunk.

She tries not to stare, but she’s suddenly overly fascinated with the way his muscles move under his skin. Her heart rate kicks up a notch. Not something she wants. This is Bellamy after all.

He spins the hatchet in his hand, glaring at the tree. “Take a picture. It’ll last longer,” he says suddenly.

Clarke jumps—embarrassed at being caught. He shoots her a satisfied smirk then slams the hatchet into the tree once more. A good kick sends it toppling. When he doesn’t say anything else, Clarke clears her throat, coming a few steps closer.

Bellamy picks up his bottle of water and sucks it dry. “What do you want? Besides to ogle me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she mutters, but she’s sure her flaming face gives her away. She didn’t come to get into a fight, though. “I was just checking on you.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Checking on me? Why?”

“I’ve been checking on everyone.” She pulls a couple bottles of water from her bag, handing one to Bellamy.

“Wow, Princess, I didn’t know you cared.”

Clarke sighs. He’s impossible. “You should keep your shirt on.”

Bellamy nearly chokes on his sip of water. “Excuse me?”

She rolls her eyes. “Your shirt—you should keep on.”

“Are you so unable to control yourself around me I have to cover up now?”

“Don’t be an ass. It doesn’t feel that hot, but our skin isn’t used to direct sunlight. I’ve already had a couple dozen kids complain about sunburns.”

“I’m naturally tan.”

“Still-”

Bellamy stares at her for a second then gulps down the water. “Is there anything else you want to pester me about or can I get back to doing something actually productive.”

Clarke’s mouth opens and closes without a sound. She wants to wipe that stupid smirk off his face. With her foot. “Fine, just don’t come crying to me when you’re burnt.” She turns on her heel and marches away.

“Toodles,” Bellamy calls after her.

That night, Clarke jerks awake at the sound of something crashing inside the dropship. She stills, straining to hear in the darkness. Maybe she imagined it—she hasn’t exactly been sleeping well. Jasper seems out of the woods, but she worries about him. About everyone. She’s almost back asleep when she hears more clattering. Someone’s going through her supplies. She slowly gets up from her pallet in the corner and tiptoes closer to the noise.

There’s another loud clank then someone curses under their breath. Bellamy.

Serves him right. She crosses her arms and watches as he tries to pry open the locked crate. “Can I help you?” she asks—her voice loud in the empty space.

Bellamy nearly jumps out of his skin, dropping the metal rod he was using. “Jesus Christ, Clarke.”

The only light comes from a flashlight sitting on the crate. She can’t really see his face, but even in the darkness, Clarke doesn’t miss the grimace when he reaches for the rod. “What’s wrong?” she asks, stepping closer to get a better look at him.

“Nothing.” They stare at each other for way too long. Bellamy cracks first, looking away with a sigh. “I hurt myself and just needed something for the pain. But some psycho locked up the first aid kits.”

“What happened? Did you cut yourself when you were chopping trees?”

“No.”

He doesn’t elaborate. With them both in the circle of illumination, she can clearly see the pain on his face—brows knit together, lips drawn in a tight, pale line against his dark skin.

“Well?” he says—his eyes darting from her to the crate.

Clarke undoes the lock and flips the lid open. Bellamy looks like he’s about to push her out of the way to get to the contents. She sets herself between him and the supplies. “I’m going to need to know how you hurt yourself if I’m going to treat it.”

He looks down at her, eyes narrowed. “I can do it myself if you just get out of my way.”

Clarke arches one eyebrow. Then places her hands on his chest, giving him a gentle nudge back. Bellamy jerks away like she shocked him. Her eyes go wide, true concern replacing her annoyance. “What’s wrong?”

“Would you just get out of the way?”

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

“God, Clarke, do you have to argue with me about everything. Can’t you just let it go this time?”

“Can’t you just let me help you for once?”

Telling her looks like the last thing Bellamy wants to do, but eventually, he gives up. He gingerly slides out of his jacket, and groans when he peels off his t-shirt. Clarke doesn’t even need to see his skin to know it’s burnt.

He grits his teeth. “I swear to god, if you say, ‘I told you so-’”

“I wouldn’t. Let me see.”

He hands her the flashlight, turning so she can get a better view of his back. There are spots on his shoulders and upper arms that have already blistered, and the back of his neck is peeling. The burn extends all the way to his waist. She said she wouldn’t say it, but she did tell him so.

“I made up a paste that should help with the burn,” Clarke tells him, finding the container easily. “At least it seems to be helping the others.”

Bellamy wrinkles his nose when she unscrews the cap. “Do I even want to know what’s in that?”

“Probably not,” she says with a grin. “Now turn around.”

He sits on the edge of the crate without a fight this time. Clarke takes a glob of the goo and squishes it between her hands. It feels disgusting and smells even worse, but it seemed to do the trick for the other victims of the sun. “This might sting a little at first,” she says. Bellamy nods, but even with the warning, he hisses, arching away from her hands.

“Quit being a baby.”

He twists to look at her. “What did you say?”

She arches an eyebrow at him until he turns back around. Slowly and gently, she spreads the paste over his skin, working it into his shoulders and neck where the worst burns are. She swears she hears him sigh.

Clarke has to admit the entire thing is extremely intimate—her fingers sliding across his skin, the darkness encircling them like they’re the only two people on the planet. She’s pretty sure the heat between them isn’t entirely coming from the sunburn, and it takes her a moment to catch her breath.

“You done?” Did she just imagine his voice cracking?

“Yeah.”

Bellamy takes the tin from her to apply the paste to his chest. There’s a little zap of current between them when their fingers brush. Clarke busies herself with repacking the crate to keep from ogling him again. He would never let her live that down.

“Thanks,” he says softly. “For this, and you know, not saying you told me so.”

She finally forces her eyes to meet his—there’s something there she can’t describe that sends a tickle down her spine. “You really should have listened.”

He smirks. “Couldn’t resist could you?”

“I waited until you were feeling better.”

He chuckles as he eases back into his shirt. “Prognosis, doc?”

Clarke stuffs the container into the crate, trying to ignore the unwelcome butterflies taking up residence in her belly. “You’ll live. But you’re going to be sore for a while. Some of those burns look like second degree. They could get infected.”

He frowns. “So keep my shirt on. Check.”

“Here,” she says, handing him another tin. “Kind of like sunblock. Use it.”

“Anything else?” He gives her a look that says her condescension isn’t appreciated.

She shakes her head. “Just-” She licks her lips. “Just be more careful. This place would fall apart without you.”

She obviously catches him off guard. Bellamy blinks at her then glances away, fumbling with the tin. “I’ll try, but I can’t make any promises. Ask Octavia—I’m prone to being an idiot.”

Clarke tries not to laugh. “I think you’re doing okay so far.”

“Yeah?”

She’s surprised at the insecurity in his voice. She nods. “You’re doing good, Bellamy. You’ve kept us alive so far. We can’t do this without you. I can’t do this.”

Bellamy clears his throat—obviously uncomfortable with the conversation. “Thanks for this,” he says, holding up the tin.

“Next time just ask for help, okay? I’m not going to tease you or anything.”

He snorts.

“I’m serious, Bellamy. We should be working together not against each other.”

He taps his finger against the tin. “Okay, I’ll make more of an effort on one condition.”

Clarke cocks her head. “What’s that?”

“You stop acting like an insufferable know-it-all.” He doesn’t give her a chance to respond. “Maybe you do know more than most of us, but shoving it in our faces just makes us feel stupid.”

Any comeback catches in her throat. She couldn’t have been more shocked if he slapped her.

“We got a deal?”

It takes her a second to find her voice. “Yes.”

Clarke follows him down the ramp, stopping him at the bottom. “Bellamy, you’re not stupid. Not once have I ever thought that.”

He looks awkward standing there, shifting from foot to foot as he takes in what she said. “My sore shoulders disagree.” The smirk that breaks across his face lights a little flame in her chest. He shakes the tin. “Here’s hoping it’s cloudy tomorrow.”

He thankfully turns before he can see the stupid grin on her face—he’s going to need someone to help him with that tomorrow. And she doubts Miller’s going to do it. Oh, God, she is in so much trouble.


End file.
